


Twisted

by CourtingInsanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Hermione Granger, F/M, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtingInsanity/pseuds/CourtingInsanity
Summary: Hermione Granger knows Draco Malfoy is responsible for the death of her Mother and Grandmother, and even though she hasn't seen him in years, she will stop at nothing to enact her revenge.





	Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece of hell was written for TheMourningMadam's Fairytale Fest. My prompt was "Little Red Cap" which is one of the many versions of "Little Red Riding Hood." My interpretation is a little dark, a little twisted, with not a lot of Dramione romance... but I'm still rather fond of it. I hope you enjoy reading it!

The woods were always dark during this time of year. Thick, dark clouds rolled across the tops of the tall trees, trapping the threat of moisture within the dense space. Rain was imminent, and though it meant getting soaked to the bone, it would at least cover the footprints that had settled perfectly into the hard-packed, muddy ground. It had been so long since she had seen another human being in this part of the forest, but one could never be too careful. 

Hermione’s fingers lingered at the base of her neck as she attempted to tuck her damp, frizzy locks beneath the worn elastic of her bonnet. It hardly covered her hair anymore, and it did little to protect from the sun, wind, or rain, but it held significant sentimental meaning; there was very little of that to be found in the isolating wilderness, so Hermione clung to it like a lifeline. 

The first drop of rain landed on the tip of Hermione’s nose, and she cursed the fact that she would have to return to her shelter immediately. She knew the woods like the back of her hand and wagered that she was probably ten minutes away from the small, run down shack she called home. 

By the time she reached the decrepit building, she was soaked through. The cottage had no running water or electricity, nor any other facilities that might make surviving just that bit easier. Part of the roof was missing, and the windows that weren’t boarded up had long since lost their glass panes. The floorboards were rotting, releasing a pungent earthy smell into the place. Hermione automatically lunged over the weakest area; if she were to put any sort of weight on it, she would surely fall through, and even though the foundation had been set neatly on flat ground, she had nothing to treat the inevitable scrapes and scratches. It wasn’t worth being careless. 

With a sigh, she shucked her bonnet and shook out her wet hair. It could not be referred to as ringlets, for she had never possessed the tight curls her schoolmates had styled into pigtails when they were girls. No, her hair was wild and untameable, sort of how she imagined herself now. She often considered that perhaps she had grown into her hair, rather than it maturing with her. It would take forever to dry, she lamented as she stared at herself in the cracked mirror which hung on the wall by the doorway. 

The skin beneath her eyes was sunken and sallow, the high points of her cheeks flushed with the bitingly cold wind as it had struck them during her run back home. Her brown eyes were lacklustre and filled with frustration; there was nothing unusual about her appearance. 

Turning away from her reflection, Hermione quickly began to discard her wet clothing and made her way to the corner of the room where her mattress lay. It was far too small for her now, as she had been forced to chop a quarter of it off after it filled with water and turned mouldy. It was stained and dirty, and the bottom left corner was wet from where it was currently pressed up against the wall. 

She moved it away with her toe, tutting as she glared up at the hole in the ceiling. All of the grey roof beams were intact, but it was the cracking and eroding of the shingles that allowed the elements to wend their way in. 

Hermione changed into her only other clothes, a threadbare sweater with holes in it that hung off her thin frame like a tent, and a pair of grey tracksuit pants which constantly drooped down her hips since the elastic had long since worn out. 

“It’s not much,” she muttered sarcastically to herself, “but it’s home.” 

Returning to her cloak and bonnet, she carefully unfolded the former and began sorting through the items she had foraged. It was the beginning of autumn, so there was still a few fruits and berries flowering in the woods, but most of the animals had gone into hiding, and the familiar dread of winter was creeping into her soul. 

Still, there was little she could do about the weather. 

Hermione settled on her mattress cross-legged and watched the sheets of rain as they fell beyond the windows. Now that she had moved away from the wall, she was sheltered from the icy blast of the water as it sprayed through the cracks on the other side of the room. 

She savoured the taste of each berry, bringing the plump fruit to her mouth and grazing the skin with her teeth gently, over and over until the tart juice spread across her tongue. They were not as sweet as usual, which was to be expected. 

As she lay flat on her back some time later, one hand pressed over her growling stomach, Hermione hoped the winter would be a short season and that summer would soon be upon her again. 

  
  


The rain had cleared by the time Hermione woke the next morning, but the sun was still hiding behind heavy-looking clouds. She would need to leave immediately and forage as much as she could while the weather held off. Her hunt had been cut short yesterday, and she wasn’t interested in facing another long week without food as she had done the previous year. 

“Think like a wolf, eat like a bear,” she muttered to herself as she popped the last of her meagre offering of berries into her mouth before setting off into the woods. 

She couldn’t remember when she had come up with that saying. Her mother and grandmother had always warned her about wolves in the forest, and as a child she had been mortally afraid of them. Now, she felt like she understood the creatures a little better, though she definitely wasn’t keen on the idea of crossing paths with one. 

Wolves were the reason she was alone… well, one wolf. It had claimed her grandmother first. 

It had been a clear spring day, and Hermione’s mother had sent her on one of her usual errand-runs. She always felt very important when Mother asked her to do some of the deliveries. Hermione’s father had died while her mother was pregnant with her, and so her mother sold baked goods to the townspeople just beyond their small village. 

On the outskirts of the town, nestled into the woods, lived her grandmother. Hermione’s grandmother was her favourite person in the whole world. Granny had made her the bonnet she was so fond of, and for which she had been given the nickname Little Red-Cap. She thought it odd to call such a garment a cap, but the townsfolk had always been a little bit different. 

Hermione sometimes refused to take it off and would wear it to bed. Her grandmother promised to make her a blanket so she wouldn’t need to be so silly, but even after she was presented with the bright red knitted blanket, Hermione continued to wear the bonnet to bed when she was feeling particularly irritated; it calmed her. 

As she trudged further into the dark woods, Hermione fingered the satin ribbon which held her cloak around her shoulders. The woolen blanket Granny had knitted was repurposed, and now she dressed and slept in both garments. Sometimes, she swore that the old lady’s scent still lingered in the fibres. 

Hermione came to a familiar looking tree. It was ancient and decaying, but it had once been the most famous tree in the woods. People called it the Middle Tree, because it was halfway between the village and the town. Children would climb it, teenagers would make out beneath it under the mystery of night time, and adults would lean against it as they stopped to chat on their way between the town and the village. 

Now the bark was peeling, and the leaves hung in such a droopy fashion one might think that the plant had simply given up and was waiting for a decent wind to rip up its roots and force it over. 

Hermione would never forget the boy she had met that day she had been sent to deliver wine and bread to her grandmother. Sometimes, when the moon hit the frost just right during those scarce clear winter nights, Hermione was reminded of his hair. It was unnaturally bright, almost as white as her Granny’s. It shimmied as he strutted about, his little chest covered in a perfectly pressed button down shirt and puffed out as if he owned the very ground beneath his privileged feet. 

_ Draco Malfoy.  _

The only things more memorable than his hair were his cold, grey eyes and his smirk. His expression had always irked Hermione, but she had never really interacted with him, only seen him bully the younger children as they attempted to climb the Middle Tree or play chasey around its base. 

On this day, he had been leaning against the tree, one foot placed nonchalantly on the bark as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he were bored… perhaps he was. Perhaps that was why he chose that moment to call out to Hermione. 

“Oi, Granger!” His usual smirk was in place as he pushed himself lazily off of the trunk and sauntered towards her. 

Hermione would never believe it was possible for a nine-year-old to  _ saunter _ anywhere, but there was something alien about Draco Malfoy that made the movement seem natural, at least to him. 

“W-what do you want?” Hermione’s cheeks flushed with heat as she stammered over her words. The last thing she wanted was for Draco Malfoy to think she was scared of him, because she absolutely  _ wasn’t _ . 

“Where are you going?” His gaze lowered to the wicker basket in her hands, and Hermione clutched the handle tighter. 

“What’s it to you?” She jutted her chin out, hoping that a false sense of bravado would encourage him to leave her alone. 

Malfoy’s face fell, and he stepped into her personal space, his haughty chest puffed so far forward it rested against the edge of her basket. “You’re going to tell me,” he warned. 

“Or what?” Hermione challenged. 

“Or you’ll regret it.” 

In that moment, Hermione had believed him. He snarled through his teeth, and his eyes blazed with a fury Hermione had only read about in fairy tales.

Malfoy had never seemed to be anything more than a schoolyard bully; he was the son of an extremely rich Lord and his wife, and they owned most of the land in the town and the village. Mister Malfoy was not the landlord of their home, but Hermione knew that Mister Nott was a close friend of Draco’s father, and it wouldn’t do to upset any of them. 

“Okay!” she breathed, her eyes blown wide. “I’m going to visit my grandmother.” 

The young Malfoy grinned, but the expression seemed oddly out of place for such a young child. “What’s in the basket?” 

“Wine and bread,” Hermione answered and lowered her gaze. She was ashamed of herself, giving in so easily even though she knew it was best. 

Draco Malfoy hummed as if he was feigning interest. “Where does your grandmother live?” 

Hermione pursed her lips. She had been given explicit instructions from her mother not to talk to strangers and never to give out any personal information. 

_ But he’s not a stranger, _ she thought to herself.  _ Not really… and he already knows my name.  _

“In the cottage on the edge of town, sort of in the woods…” Hermione slung the basket over one of her arms and made a halfhearted swooping motion with her other hand, her cheeks flaming again. 

Draco Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “I know where that is!” he exclaimed and then quickly turned on his heel. “I’ll race you!” 

He took off into the woods, a blur of black tailored linen and pale hair. Hermione stood stunned for a moment; is that all it had been about? A silly excuse to run, to outdo her? 

She shrugged and continued on her way at the usual pace, following the Malfoy boy deeper into the woods. Hermione whistled as she walked, thinking about how nice it would be to have a cup of tea with her grandmother. Perhaps Granny would even make her a jam sandwich. She knew how to make it exactly the way Hermione liked it. 

She was nearing the cottage now, but before she could step out of the copse of trees, Draco Malfoy’s voice floated through her ears as if he were sending her a message directly into her brain. “Last one there’s a  _ Redcap _ !” 

His tone was so perfectly mocking that Hermione stopped suddenly, clutching her chest and gasping as she whirled around, looking for the source of the voice. 

But as far as she could tell, she was alone. 

_ I imagined it, _ she told herself as she took a deep, steadying breath and prepared to move towards her grandmother’s house.  _ That silly Draco Malfoy has gotten in my head, and I won’t stand for it! Shake it off, Hermione!  _

She did physically shake herself then and must have looked incredibly odd as she approached the cottage covered in vines and lined with hedges. But even though she tried to force her mind to focus on anything other than the annoying prat, his voice continued to echo in her mind. 

_ Redcap! Redcap! Redcap!  _

She had no idea what he meant by calling her a  _ Redcap. _ It was silly, really, that he would use her nickname against her and try to make it sound like it was something horrible. Hermione was very proud of her bonnet and her cloak, and it was very unkind of Draco Malfoy to tease her like this. 

By the time she arrived at the cottage, she was feeling very angry and was definitely ready to give the annoying blond boy a piece of her mind. 

But when she entered the clearing, she looked towards the cottage and noticed that the front door was open. Definitely strange. The village was small, and the town relatively so as well, so there wasn’t a lot of crime, but the people still locked up even when they were home. 

Hermione’s grandmother was always telling her to close the window, shut the door,  _ Mind it’s locked behind you, pet. _

Her mother lectured on stranger danger, the importance of being home by dusk, and always closing the window before settling into bed.

_ Check twice, rest at once, _ Jean Granger would hum as she locked up for the night and then double checked that every latch was secure. 

“Hello?” Hermione called as she crossed the threshold. “Granny?” 

Silence. 

Hermione thought that perhaps Draco Malfoy had indeed arrived here and already been greeted by her grandmother. Hermione huffed and stomped her foot in irritation; fine that Granny had let that stupid boy in and left the door open in anticipation of Hermione’s arrival, but it was entirely another thing to agree to such nonsense as  _ hiding _ from her. 

“Come out here!” Hermione called petulantly. “I know you’re trying to scare me, and it’s not funny!” 

She set her basket on the round dining table and threw herself into a chair. Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at the pattern in the wicker and tried to ignore the burning sense of being left out as it clawed its way up her throat. 

After what felt like hours, Hermione shouted, “I’m not playing! I’m just sitting here, and I won’t move until you come out!” 

Certain that would lure out Malfoy and her grandmother, she pasted a triumphant smirk on her face and turned to watch the bedroom door. There were few other places to hide in the cramped space, so Hermione focused on the sliver of light that peeked through the door jamb. 

But nothing happened. There was no sound of the telltale rustling of people moving, or footsteps, or the expected giggling which surely would accompany such a practical joke. 

Finally, impatience won out, and Hermione jumped off the chair. “Fine!” she yelled, her hands finding their way to her hips. She stomped around the table and through the small living area towards the bedroom. 

Without ceremony, she pushed the door open with her foot and marched into the room. 

The scenario laid before her would forever be imprinted in her mind. Hermione was sure she screamed as her gaze locked on to the limp and bloody form of her grandmother spread across the duvet. 

Hermione noticed Granny’s large eyes staring up at the ceiling, unblinking and vacant. 

Hermione noticed Granny’s hands, swollen with blood, her fingers splayed to almost impossible angles, as if she had clutched at the bedclothes in hopes they would save her from whatever horror had befallen her.

Hermione noticed Granny’s ears… or what used to be her ears. So severe was the slashing that the lobes had been torn clean off the body, leaving gaping black and blood-drenched wounds. 

Hermione noticed Granny’s teeth, sitting in a glass on the bedside table. She had not even managed to get out of bed before someone had broken into her house and mauled her to death. 

She ran all the way home, tears burning the flesh of her face. She passed the children at the tree but ignored their concerned calls. When she made it to her own cottage, she headed straight into her mother’s arms. Flour from her mother’s apron clung to the wet spots on her face, but she wouldn’t be pried away as she sobbed and choked incoherently. 

When she could finally speak, she said, “Granny’s d-d-dead!” and then recommenced her wailing. 

Her mother paled, forced her way out of Hermione’s vice-like grip, and organised all of the logical things adults were expected to organise in such times. But her mother never travelled to the cottage, never had to see the body, and she forbade Hermione from returning, an instruction Hermione had adhered to for almost a decade. 

All this fear because of the rich, snobbish boy who possessed the deepest of dark secrets.

_ Draco Malfoy _ . 

Hermione remembered his name turning over in her mind like a mantra. Draco Malfoy had been there; he had done that to her grandmother. She wasn’t sure how, exactly, but there was something different about him, something odd. Hermione sensed in her bones that he was the reason her grandmother had befallen such a horrific fate. 

Now, Hermione lived and slept and ate in such close proximity of where it all happened. Sure, the bedroom and adjoining bathroom had been lost to a fire many years ago—this she had heard from some townspeople soon after she had begun living in the woods—but the living space was what she now called home… and it would forever be her prison both physically and mentally. 

“Move it,” she muttered to herself as she came back to the present. “Food, food, food.” 

She continued to hum this mantra to herself in time to her footsteps as she headed further into the woods. Sometimes she just needed something else to focus on, so the memories didn’t swallow her whole. 

Or the voices. 

Well, one voice in particular.  _ Draco Malfoy’s voice. _

It hadn’t left her alone since the day her grandmother had died. 

“Food, food… focus, Hermione!” 

Hermione was far too good at spotting edible berries, the movement of a slow or injured animal, the types of leaves that were good for eating, and the stream ran right beside her shack. There was really no shortage of water, not even in winter when everything froze. One just had to be patient and ensure enough icicles were collected during the warmer temperatures of the day. 

Her mother had taught her about survival, mostly. She was quite progressive, Jean Granger, despite her obsession with keeping Hermione safe from just about every conceivable scenario that might end in tragedy. She taught Hermione how to hunt, how to select berries for different pies and desserts, and how to locate sources of water. Hermione sometimes thought her mother might have guessed what would happen to her, but she always brushed the idea aside; there was no way her own mother could have predicted her untimely death. 

None of the other villages ever spoke of the wolf, at least not since the whispers had died down after the death of Hermione’s grandmother. But then, two years ago, on the eve of Hermione’s nineteenth birthday, the wolf struck again. 

Hermione had never seen the creature, but the pale blond hair of Draco Malfoy was unmistakable, and she had decided nearly a decade ago that he was different. Not in a way that some children were considered especially gifted, or funny, or odd… no, he was  _ really _ different, as in  _ not human.  _

Hermione’s mother told her fairy tales, of course. Hermione was an avid reader and devoured books of all genres, but she also possessed a logical mind, and she simply didn’t put up with talk of such nonsense things like  _ magic. _ That was, until she saw it occur before her very eyes. 

Well, near them, at least. 

Hermione had been hanging out the washing in the small garden beside the cottage. It had been ten years since Granny’s death, and most of the village had moved on. Hermione remained haunted by the image of her dead grandmother, and it had impacted her health both mentally and physically. Her mother barely knew how to speak to her, and Hermione had decided she didn’t much care. Her heartstrings had been disconnected on that day and the damage was irreparable; she didn’t feel anything, and she liked it that way. At least, she  _ thought _ she could no longer feel anything… 

Anger rose in her chest as she watched the handsome young man approach. He was wearing a navy blue linen button down tucked stylistically into perfectly pleated trousers. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as his gaze settled on her; his hands in his pockets, he smirked and beelined for her. 

Draco Malfoy rarely graced this part of the world with his presence, and from the information Hermione had gleaned, he didn’t spend a lot of time in the town either. He had been accepted into some hoity-toity private school abroad a couple of years after the incident with her Grandmother. The fact that no other attacks had occurred since then only confirmed Hermione’s suspicions that Draco had killed her grandmother. 

Draco Malfoy, according to Hermione, was a werewolf. 

As he approached, all long legs and broad chest, Hermione cast her wary gaze to the sky. The moon was a pale silhouette in the clear blue sky, but it was still clear that it was almost full. 

“What do you want?” she called out in a biting tone as he came within earshot. 

Malfoy’s smirk widened, but he did not answer her question. 

Hermione fought the urge to stamp her foot. She was quick to rage these days. Her mother often said that she had always been this way, but Hermione sensed that the anger which lived in the space between her stomach and rib cage had grown incrementally in the past ten years, like an inflating balloon. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger,” Malfoy greeted her in his pompous voice. He tilted his head to the side and squinted so he could maintain eye contact with her while looking directly into the sun. 

Hermione hated that she found him handsome. “What do you want?” she repeated. 

Malfoy shrugged. “I fancied a walk. I’ve been cooped up in the manor all summer, and it’s dreadfully dull.” 

Hermione snorted. “Yes, I’m sure it must be difficult for you, sitting around while your servants satisfy your every whim.” 

“You’ve quite a way with words,” he observed, stepping closer to her. 

Hermione was taken off guard, and suddenly she was the small girl again, scared of the Big Bad Malfoy child, the boy with the freakishly white hair who had more power over her because he was a male and he was rich and he was a family friend of the man who decided whether or not Hermione and her mother had a roof over their heads… 

“Granger?” he asked, a frown on his face. “Are you feeling all right?” 

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but she could not locate her voice. The next few moments became imprinted in her memory as a blur of confusion, indistinct colours and shapes and sounds, and then she was running, running away from him and his shouts for her to stop. 

She returned to the cottage hours later, when her heart had stopped thumping painfully against her ribcage and the roar of a thousand thoughts had finally given her ears a reprieve. It was twilight, the full moon gaining strength in its luminosity above the tops of the shade-drenched trees. 

Hermione opened the door to the cottage, intent on declining her mother’s offer of supper in exchange for sitting in the bath until it went cold before collapsing into bed. She was beyond exhausted and longed for nothing more than an uninterrupted night’s sleep. 

Unfortunately, there would be no sleep for Hermione that night. 

When she entered the cottage, she first turned her head to the right, expecting to come face-to-face with her mother, whom she had assumed would be standing before the stove, stirring a pot upon it. 

The pot was there, something which might once have been soup scorched into the bottom of the pan, but her mother was nowhere to be seen. 

“Mother?” Hermione called, squinting into the solidifying darkness. 

There came no response, but as Hermione rounded the side of the kitchen counter, she saw the tips of her mother’s shoes and gasped, her fingers covering her mouth. Jean Granger was lying on the cold tiles surrounded by a pool of cold blood; she had been dead for hours. 

“Mother!” Hermione screamed, dropping to her knees in the mess. Her mother’s hair was soaked, her apron stained a bright and disgusting red, and her eyes stared unseeing, a mask of shock etched permanently on her lifeless face. 

Dawn was breaking when Hermione finally found the strength to remove herself from the cottage. She walked aimlessly through the village, unsure of how she should raise the alarm. 

_ My mother is dead, _ she repeated in her mind as she moved,  _ and Draco Malfoy killed her. _

Of this she was absolutely certain. He was the only one near the cottage when Hermione left, and she  _ knew _ what he was, she had for years. This confirmed it; the strength of her belief solidified in her stomach like a slab of concrete, and it steadied her resolve. 

She marched herself into the butchers, having decided that the only other person who would be awake at this hour would be Mr Downing. 

She was right, and the look of fright on the butcher’s face would have been something she considered priceless had the circumstances of her visit been different. 

“My mother—” Hermione managed to choke out as the shocked old man flattened himself against the wall behind the counter. “Please…” 

She collapsed then, and the next thing Hermione knew was the too-bright white ceiling of the doctor’s office. 

“Where is he?” she demanded, forcing herself into a sitting position. “Where is Draco Malfoy?” 

The doctor chuckled and then arched an eyebrow at the nurse who was standing over Hermione’s right shoulder. “Draco Malfoy?” 

“Yes. He killed my mother; I know it was him. He’s a werewolf! He slaughtered her and my grandmother, and—”

“Shhh! There, there,” the nurse crooned, patting Hermione’s hand as it gripped the table she was sitting on. 

Hermione watched, her mouth slightly open with the intention of continuing her spiel, as the nurse made eye contact with the doctor and made a pitying tutting noise. 

Shock, they said… she was suffering from the shock of finding her mother in the way she had. Hermione wanted to argue, wanted to tell them that she was completely fine and all she needed was to find the elusive Draco Malfoy and somehow prove that he was the monster she knew him to be. 

Instead, they sent her home with strict instructions to rest, but Hermione had no intention of doing anything they told her. Fine, they didn’t believe her—that wouldn’t stop her from proving them wrong, and when she did, they would eat their words and their prescriptions and she would laugh and laugh… 

It didn’t take long before Theodore Nott Sr. came calling at the cottage. Without her mother’s income, Hermione was no longer able to pay the rent. There was nowhere else for her to go; most of the village folks had decided she was bad luck and refused to speak to her, let alone offer her shelter. 

Perhaps she shouldn’t have written pamphlets about werewolves and distributed them in both the town and village.

In all honesty, being evicted didn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. Hermione preferred living in the wilderness; it was easier to hunt the werewolf out here. 

Two years had passed since the death of her mother and there remained no sight of the pale-haired Draco Malfoy, nor his wolf form… but Hermione was patient. She just had to sustain herself long enough to prove that she wasn’t as mad as everyone thought she was. 

Once she had gathered enough food to last her the next two, maybe three, days, she returned to the shack that had once belonged to her grandmother. The moon was almost full, and Hermione had a tingling feeling in her bones that this would be the time she finally caught Draco Malfoy—she just knew it. 

Reminiscing about the deaths of her grandmother and mother had taken a bit of a toll on Hermione’s mind. She was agitated and antsy for the rest of the afternoon, cursing the sun as it hung about in the sky, taunting her with its brilliant, warm rays. 

She told herself that she should appreciate the yellow light as much as possible while it was still around; a chill in the air told her that there wouldn’t be many of these evenings left and soon she’d be shivering violently underneath dirt and leaves, praying to make it through  _ just one more winter.  _

Finally, after the sun had completely disappeared, Hermione heard the distinct sound of footsteps as they approached her shelter. She was grateful that the night was free of rain and she could hear them approaching long enough to prepare before they appeared. 

There were two sets of footsteps, and as they neared, Hermione heard the lilt of conversation and laughter. Drunks, perhaps… Hermione had long forgotten what day it was; only the seasons mattered now. It could be teenagers on a Friday night having stolen some of their parents’ alcohol, or a couple of woodchoppers making their way back from the tavern, or— 

_ Draco Malfoy.  _

His white-blond hair gleamed beneath the moonlight, making it easy to recognise him. His walk had not changed since the last time Hermione had seen him, all long strides and puffed out chest as if he might be the most important person in this part of the world. Maybe he was right about that. He was, at least, the most important person in Hermione’s world, though for none of the right reasons.

Hesitating, Hermione wondered if it might be better to stalk Malfoy before revealing herself or whether she should just call his name from here and then proceed to strangle him until the light left his eyes. 

In the end it didn’t matter because Draco turned at the exact moment Hermione was sticking her head further out of her shack, and he caught her eye. 

His face registered shock at first, but then his features relaxed into his usual smirk. He bent down to murmur something into his companion’s ear; the woman smiled up him, kissed him on the cheek, and then turned to walk back the way they had come. She was pretty, Hermione decided as she watched the woman leave, with her short, black hair, and feminine curves. 

As the woman disappeared down the path, Hermione returned her attention to Malfoy who was now sauntering towards her.

“Granger,” he greeted her ten feet from the cottage. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes but did not respond. She wasn’t going to get sucked into his false pleasantries. 

“I heard you were living out here,” he said, taking one step forward. “I also heard an interesting rumour you once spread about me; do you still think I am a werewolf?” His smirk widened into a mocking sort of smile, and he cocked his head to the side. 

He was discounting her, considered her mad and weak and  _ that poor little Red Cap, losing her grandmother and mother in such a grisly way… _ Hermione had received enough pity to last her a lifetime, and she certainly didn’t want Draco Malfoy feeling sorry for her. 

“You’re not like us,” Hermione found herself saying before the words had registered in her brain. “You’re different, odd.” 

Malfoy inclined his head slightly. “I won’t argue with that one. But I can assure you I’m not a werewolf. In fact—” he strode forwards suddenly and stood less than a foot away from Hermione “—I don’t think we’re all that different, you and I. There have been whispers about what you’re capable of doing, and a similar case has been documented not far from here—”

Hermione shook her head, a high pitched wailing beginning to ring in her ears. “What do you mean?” 

Malfoy shook his head. “I don’t think I should tell you.” His voice lacked his usual taunting lilt, and Hermione frowned in confusion. “But I wanted to plant the seed, have done for years, after that first time… here.” He gestured lamely behind Hermione, and the wailing built to an almighty crescendo. 

It was one thing for him to come walking into her woods with some floozy, as if the deaths of her family hadn’t happened and that they hadn’t been his damn fault… but to insinuate that there was something wrong with Hermione and that he had been acting the helpful samaritan… it made Hermione’s blood boil. 

“Woah!” Malfoy stumbled back. “Granger, I—” His eyes grew wide, and Hermione revelled in his lower jaw falling slack, forcing his mouth into a stupid-looking ‘o’ shape. 

“You killed them.” Hermione breathed harshly, her legs carrying her towards him. 

The wind had picked up, and her frizzy hair whipped around her face, but she found it did not obstruct her view like it normally did. Her vision focussed on the terrified form of Draco Malfoy, tunneling until she could make out the long lashes framing his grey eyes, the too-white teeth behind thin lips, and the way his mouth formed the words, “Granger, no!” 

As her hands closed around his throat, Hermione realised that she had run straight towards him. His nails tore at the back of her knuckles, but she only squeezed harder. She was screaming, but the words fell from her lips and disappeared into the roaring wind before they could make it to her own ears. His guttural pleas for mercy vibrated beneath her palms, and Hermione thought she might implode from the euphoria as it coursed through her veins. 

_ Finally _ , she thought, _ I will enact my revenge and prove that I’m not the one who should be banished to a collapsing cottage in the middle of nowhere.  _

But before she could delight in the death of Draco Malfoy, he produced a wooden stick from inside the pocket of his trousers and pointed it at her. His lips didn’t move, but a red light caught Hermione in the stomach and sent her flying backwards. She landed against the front wall of the dilapidated shack, winded and sore, but her fury only grew with this pain. 

Malfoy was crouched twenty feet in front of her, one hand on his knee as he hunched over, the other arm still aiming the stick at Hermione. He was coughing and spluttering as Hermione found her feet again. 

“You need to listen to me, Granger!” he said as she stalked towards him.    
  


The wind had died down, but the leaves rustled along the ground at their feet as if in warning. 

“Why should I?” Hermione hissed. “You’re a murderer! A beast! A mon—”

“No, I’m not!” Malfoy shouted, a glint of fury springing to life in his irises. “I’m not the monster, Granger; you are.” 

The wind instantly picked up, swirling around them, threatening to lift them off their feet. Thunder rolled above their heads, and Hermione almost felt at peace with the weather demonstrating the way she felt on the inside. 

“How dare you!” she screeched, lunging for him. 

Malfoy ducked and side stepped so that he was behind her. Ropes then coiled around her middle, trapping her arms to her sides and making it impossible for Hermione to move. She screamed in frustration, and the wind began to collect and swirl around the two of them, forcing them closer together. 

It was surprisingly calm in the eye of the storm, a feeling that directly opposed the sensation floating in Hermione’s chest. “Let me go!” she demanded. 

“No,” Malfoy stated calmly. “Not until you hear me out.” He held up his stick in front of Hermione’s face. She flinched away from it, but nothing happened, leaving her cheeks heated in the wake of Malfoy’s condescending smirk. “This is my wand,” he said. “I’m a wizard.” Hermione scoffed, but before she could remark that she knew there had been something abnormal about him, he added, “And you are a witch.” 

Hermione wanted to laugh, but the shock of his statement caught her off guard. For years she had known that he was not normal, that he had powers that the normal folk didn’t understand. But this wasn't what she had expected. She had thought he was a werewolf; though, now that she considered it… 

“So you killed my family with your  _ wand _ ?” Hermione stared warily at the weapon as it continued to dance in front of her face.

Malfoy sighed in an annoyed sort of way and lowered his wand. “No. I didn’t kill your family.” He chewed his lip as if he was unsure of whether or not to say the next part, but then he blurted out, “You did.” 

“Excuse me?” Hermione blinked incredulously and fought against the ropes which were beginning to cut off her circulation. 

Was this fool serious? Surely he was projecting his own guilt on to her. Hermione would have remembered if  _ she  _ had been the one to kill her grandmother and mother. She had no special powers. She didn’t possess a wand, and she certainly wasn’t able to tie people up without her hands. 

“You’re what we call an Obscurial.” 

“A what?” 

“Your magical energy has been repressed due to your Muggle upbringing, and it manifests in an Obscurus, which basically behaves as a parasite within your body.” 

Hermione’s head swam. What the  _ hell _ was he on about? She believed that he possessed inexplicable powers—her inability to move her limbs right now proved that. But that  _ she _ was also part of his pack of weirdos was just too much for her to accept. 

“And what makes your case so interesting is that most Obscurials don’t live past ten years of age,” he continued, seemingly unable to help himself. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“I don’t expect you to. But I hope you’ll believe that I can help you.” 

“Why should I believe that?” 

“Because it might be your only chance.” 

“Chance of what?” 

“You tell me.” Malfoy cast his gaze towards the decaying cottage, and a shiver ran up Hermione’s spine. 

The wind was once again dying down, and Hermione’s heart rate was slowing. Maybe he was wrong about her possessing magical powers, but lulling Draco Malfoy into a false sense of security could only work in her favour right now. She fixed him with a resigned sort of look, and he smirked back at her. 

“I know you don’t believe me,” he said, “but I can prove to you that I’m telling you to truth.” 

“How?” Hermione asked, curiosity blooming in her chest. 

“I can show you my memories,” he said, wincing slightly, “of the days your grandmother and mother…” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Really?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. 

He nodded, and Hermione considered the possibility for a moment. On the one hand, Malfoy could be lying, either to make a fool out of Hermione or to save his own skin… on the other, if he was telling the truth, Hermione was sure she could get him to focus on this trip down memory lane so that she was able to enact her revenge. 

_ What is there to lose?  _ she asked herself, somewhat sarcastically. 

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.” 

She indicated for him to untie her, which he did, but he nodded towards his wand in a non-verbal reminder that he could incapacitate her again should he be required to. Hermione rolled her eyes and for one moment she hoped that he was telling the truth about her having special powers; they would come in handy when it came time to kill him. 

Malfoy offered his arm, and Hermione flinched away from it. 

“It’s okay, Granger.” He smirked. “I just need you to hold on to it; I promise I won’t bite.” 

He bared his teeth then, and Hermione was reminded of her original assumption about him. 

_ Werewolf _ , she thought.  _ Just because he wields a wand doesn’t make him completely human… _

But before she could voice this revelation out loud, Malfoy had caught her by the wrist and told her to hold on. In the next second, he had twisted them around slightly, and then she was being squeezed through a narrow strip of air, being pressed from all sides until she felt as though her organs may have completely shifted inside her; colours and lights flashed all around them and made her dizzy. 

A second later they landed in a grassy field, Malfoy Manor looming before them. 

Hermione stumbled out of Malfoy’s grip and leaned forward, her hands on her knees. Her stomach rolled relentlessly, and she spat on the ground in anticipation of the inevitable vomit. As she had not eaten properly in forever, there wasn’t a lot to bring up, but her body convulsed as it tried its best to cleanse her digestive system. 

Finally, she stood, now aware of Malfoy’s chuckling. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and glared at him. “Never do that again.” 

  
“Apparition is something you get used to.” He shrugged and then motioned for her to fall into step beside him. 

Hermione did as he bade even though most of her wanted to punch him in the face and run; she’d seen enough of his magic to know it was real, and she wanted answers… then she would avenge her family. 

The inside of the manor was just as grand as the facade; the walls were painted a beautiful off-white colour, chandeliers glittered above their heads, and the scent of wildflowers hung in every room they passed through. 

In a sitting room up the stairs, they found Lord and Lady Malfoy. Hermione had seen Lord Malfoy a handful of times in her childhood; Draco resembled him in almost every way, but his eyes were his mother’s. 

Hermione had heard about Narcissa Malfoy. She was foreign to the area, and a lot of the village ladies liked to gossip about the frail Lady who was too ill to properly raise her son, the weak wife who did not fulfil her duties to her husband and spent her days wailing in bed. 

Hermione guessed they had been rumours borne of jealousy and little substance because the woman sitting before her could be described as anything but weak or frail; she looked regal. Her back was as straight as a lightning rod, her sleek hair cascading down her back, and her familiar grey eyes sparkled with recognition even though Hermione had yet to be introduced. 

“Mother, Father,” Malfoy greeted his parents with an air of grace that was lacking in the way he spoke to Hermione. “This is Hermione Granger.” Neither registered this news as shocking, and Malfoy continued, “I’m going to take her to use the Pensieve.” 

Malfoy Senior inclined his head, and Hermione opened her mouth to thank him, but before she could get a word out, the young Malfoy had taken her wrist and pulled her from the room. She pulled her arm out of his grasp as soon as they were out of sight of his parents. He rolled his eyes, and she glared at him, but they spent the short walk down the corridor and into a large study in silence. 

Hermione stood in the middle of the warm space as Malfoy stalked towards a cupboard to the left, bent down and stuck his head inside it. For a moment she wondered if she should be concerned for his safety, but in the next second she was imagining forcing him further into the cabinet and locking it. 

“Here,” he said, panting slightly as he came back into view. 

He was pulling what looked like an ornate circular basin towards him. It seemed quite ordinary to Hermione; beautiful, but not something she would consider magical. She glanced up at Malfoy to question the plainness of the glorified-sink, but he had placed the tip of his wand to his temple and seemed quite deep in thought. 

As he dragged the wand away from his head, Hermione thought he had curled some of his hair around the end of the length of wood, but then as it snapped and hung away from his head, Hermione realised that the pearlescent thread was thicker, yet less tangible, than hair. 

“What is th—?”

“A memory,” he whispered, gingerly placing the thread into the Pensieve. 

It instantly expanded, filling the basin with swirling silver light. Malfoy placed the tip of his finger on the contents, and they stilled. From the point of contact, a rectangular window began to appear. 

“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing towards the slowly widening window. 

Hermione felt a little bit stupid, but she supposed that if she couldn’t see anything through the small rectangular space, she could simply call out Malfoy as a phony and proceed to revenge plot. She knelt beside him and obediently tipped her head forwards over the bowl. 

The first thing Hermione noticed as she inched her face closer to the swirling substance was that she could see the tops of a familiar cluster of trees through the window. In the middle of the copse stood a small cottage; her grandmother’s cottage. Distantly, in the woods, Hermione could see her own head, unmistakable as it was covered in her red cap. 

She continued to press herself forward, frustrated with this limited view, but before she could ask Malfoy to widen the window, she lost her footing and fell down, down, down, until she landed in the middle of the woods. 

“What happened?” she demanded, spinning on the spot. 

A younger version of Malfoy came into view. He was strutting by her in his usual fashion, chest puffed out and all. 

“Oi!” Hermione called, jogging up behind him. “Malfoy!” 

“I won’t answer.” 

Hermione clutched a hand to her heart and whirled around. The adult version of Malfoy had crept up behind her. She wanted to shove him for the fright she had endured, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d scared her half to death. 

“Why not?” she demanded. 

“This is a memory. You simply watch.” 

He gestured towards the younger version of himself and indicated that they should follow. Hermione clenched her teeth together and followed him, already dismissing this adventure as officially the most ridiculous one she had ever been on. 

Young Malfoy continued on his way through the forest until he came to the Middle Tree. Hermione could see her younger self as she made her way to her grandmother’s house. A shiver ran up her spine as she realised what she was about to witness. 

Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure about this idea at all. 

_ “Oi, Granger!” _ Young Malfoy shouted to Young Hermione. 

_ “W-what do you want?”  _

Present Hermione’s cheeks flared, mimicking the reaction of her younger counterpart. She turned to glare at Present Malfoy, who offered her a half-hearted shrug. 

_ “Where are you going?” _

_ “What’s it to you?”  _

Malfoy turned to her and grinned; pride flared briefly in Hermione’s chest, but it was extinguished soon after as the Young Malfoy stepped into Young Hermione’s space and growled,  _ “Or you’ll regret it.”  _

She had missed a part of the conversation but it didn’t matter. Hermione remembered exactly how she had felt in that moment, standing before Malfoy, knowing that he had more power over her just because he was a boy and from a privileged family. 

Fire erupted in her body, and she clenched her fists at her side as she continued to watch the rest of the interaction, her chest heaving. 

_ “I’m going to visit my grandmother.”  _

_ “What’s in the basket?”  _

_ “Wine and bread.” _

Wine and bread that her grandmother would never get to drink. The basket had been dropped, Hermione remembered, somewhere in her Granny’s cottage. She supposed that the people who had dealt with the clean up had found it… she wondered if they’d thrown it out or helped themselves to the spoils of her despair. 

_ “Where does your grandmother live?”  _

_ “In the cottage on the edge of town, sort of in the woods…”  _

_ “I know where that is!” _ Young Malfoy’s face lit up, and he began to turn away from Young Hermione.  _ “I’ll race you!”  _

Present Malfoy took her by the elbow half a second later, indicating that they needed to follow the younger version of himself. Hermione wanted to protest; she wanted to stay and comfort her younger self, protect the young girl from what she was about to encounter, but she was logical enough to understand that if this was Malfoy’s memory, they had to follow his footsteps; there was nobody here for her to help. 

They followed Young Malfoy all the way to Granny’s house. The cottage stood as pristine as she remembered it from her childhood. Tears stung Hermione’s eyes as she looked up at the structure, momentarily unable to call to memory its current state. 

Young Malfoy hid around the side of the house, and it was there Present Malfoy and Hermione stood in wait for Young Hermione. It wasn’t long until the tell-tale red cap and cloak came into view. Hermione’s younger self looked livid, despite Hermione remembering that she had not felt all that concerned on the day. She frowned and turned to Malfoy, but he wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was locked intently on Young Hermione. 

Hermione heard herself knock on the door, followed by the telltale stomping of her foot. 

_ Odd, _ she thought with a frown.  _ I remember finding the door open on that day…  _

There came a shout from the front of the house and Hermione watched her younger self now pounding on the door. “Malfoy, I know you’re in there! Granny, this isn’t funny!” 

Young Malfoy giggled behind his hand, but his mirth was short lived. A strong wind appeared suddenly, rattling the windows on the house and disturbing the birds out of the trees. Hermione could hear the call of her Granny as she told Young Hermione to hold her horses while she found her glasses… but Young Hermione had disappeared and in her place was a dark, murky-looking cloud of blackness. It dipped and swirled around the house, growing at a rapid rate. 

Young Malfoy staggered backwards, out of reach of the cloud that had stirred itself into a frenzy around the entire cottage. Bits of wood and glass flew through the air, landing with almighty bangs on the ground. The door flew off its hinges, and Hermione saw the faint outline of her grandmother as the old woman clung to what was left of the door frame. She was yelling out Hermione’s name, cooing to the black wind as if it could understand her. 

Hermione heard the word “Malfoy” fall from her Granny’s lips, and for a moment the wind seemed to die down. But then the black cloud concentrated in a whirlwind, torpedoing towards the frail old lady as she yelled and pleaded for Hermione to calm down. 

Over and over again the wind attacked, flying at the body of her grandmother long after the old lady was dead. 

Before the scene could settle around them, Hermione was yanked out of the memory by her elbow. 

Her face was wet, and her first impression was that it was due to the substance in the Pensieve, then she realised the dampness was from her own tears. She was shaking violently, and she felt as though the edges of her own being were being pulled apart like one might tug at the threads of an old skirt hem. 

“Granger?” Malfoy was facing her, his hands held before him in a sign of surrender. “Are you okay?” 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice. 

“That was your Obscurus,” Malfoy explained gently, though the words washed over Hermione without meaning. “What you remember from that day was created in your mind to protect you. You’re a fighter; I’ll give you that. Remember how I said that most Obscurials don’t live past ten years old?” 

Hermione nodded, though she didn’t really. Nothing made sense any more, least of all this scenario. 

“I think this is why you’ve managed to live so long; your mind is powerful enough to protect itself from your own reality. It’s blocked out what really happened to your grandmother and your mother and—”

“I don’t want to see the other one!” Hermione trembled, her eyes widening as she remembered that Malfoy had said  _ memories _ , plural, about the deaths of both her grandmother  _ and  _ mother. She didn’t need to see what happened to her mother; she didn’t think she would be able to stomach it. 

Malfoy nodded in understanding. There was a pause and then, “I think you should see someone. Someone from my world, that is. I think you need to see a Mind Healer. They might be able to help you and—”

“And they’ll help me use my powers?” Hermione snapped her head up and met Malfoy’s gaze. 

The pained look on his face told her everything she needed to know. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” he said quietly. “But I know you’ll be less likely to hurt anyone else if you—”

“So you lied to me?” Hermione whispered. 

Hot rage poured into her body from her head to replace the sense of loss, culminating at her toes first before rising up her legs and settling in her chest. Her blood pumped the lava around her system, fuelling her anger and making the room spin. Her breaths were shallow and fast, her chest rising and falling at an alarming rate; she stalked across the room, forcing Malfoy into a corner before Hermione even realised she had moved. 

“N-no,” he said, fumbling with his wand. 

Hermione gritted her teeth, but before he could focus the weapon in her direction, she let out an almighty howl and a ferocious wind picked up from nowhere. Hermione watched as the black cloud seeped out of her chest and cloaked her in its darkness. Only this time, instead of feeling scared or out of control, she felt powerful. 

Trinkets and heirlooms fell from the oak shelves around the room, shattering glass and wood on the wooden floor. The door blew outwards and Hermione ran towards it, ignoring Malfoy’s calls. 

Red sparks flew past her but Hermione found herself soaring along the corridor, blasting walls and windows in her wake. Nothing could stop her, no one could control her, and for everything he had done to her, all he had shown her, Draco Malfoy would pay with his house, his family, and his life. 

Lord and Lady Malfoy met her in the corridor, their wands outstretched, but Hermione blew past them as if they were China dolls. She continued on her path, not sure where she was going but intent on destroying everything she came into contact with. Now that she had learned about her real identity, the real reason for all the rage she had held within her for over two decades, it felt like an enormous relief to finally let some of it out. 

“Granger!” Malfoy’s voice sounded as if it were coming from underwater. 

Hermione supposed she should be frightened, but she just wanted to laugh. He thought he could control her when they were children, could one up her by racing her to her grandmother’s house… but he cost her something that day, and he cost her something every day after. 

If he had really wanted to help, why hadn’t he intervened before the same fate befell her mother?

_ Because Mother kept this from you… it was her. _

The realisation hit Hermione like a tonne of bricks, and she stumbled, her feet suddenly on the ground. The wind began to dissipate, and she was left standing, exhausted, on the landing in Malfoy Manor. 

She turned to look behind her and was pleased to see that the entire North wing had been blown apart. The Malfoys could be heard on the other side of an ash cloud, but she could not see them yet. 

Her chest heaved as she watched and waited. Her mother had known; Hermione felt it in her bones. She had just witnessed her grandmother’s reaction to Hermione’s manifestation of powers. The old lady knew, too. They had kept this from her, repressed her. 

All those fairy tales, all those nights spent reading about the existence of magic, and what had her mother reminded her at the end of each one? 

_ “I’m so glad you have a logical brain inside your head, Hermione. You just don’t hold with such nonsense, and that will be your strength.” _

Strength. Hermione scoffed, balling her fists at her sides. It was the very thing that made her weak and ultimately led to her mother’s demise. Guilt mingled with a savage stab of pleasure as the Malfoys finally broke through the ash cloud and simultaneously sent jets of light towards Hermione. 

Everything went black, but not before Hermione pasted a smirk on her face. 

  
  


Hermione woke in a stark white room with an unfamiliar face staring down at her. 

“Hullo, dear,” the orange-haired lady said. “You’re in the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Can you tell me your name?” 

Hermione’s first instinct was to give a fake name, but then she thought better of it; if they already considered her to be crazy, best not to prove them right. “Hermione Granger,” she muttered. 

“Lovely.” The woman scribbled on a clipboard and then glanced back up at Hermione with a large smile on her face. “You’ve got your own room.” She gestured around the small space; four white walls, a wooden rocking chair, and the narrow bed Hermione was currently laying on.

“Cheerful,” Hermione deadpanned. 

The woman grinned wider. “You’ll be staying with us for a while, and I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” Hermione mused that she wished she could say the same. “I’ll give you a minute to freshen up, and then it’ll be time for group therapy with the Mind Healers in the common room. I’ll be back in five to collect you.” She held up five stumpy fingers covered in silver rings and then flashed Hermione another warm smile. 

The door clicked shut behind her and Hermione heard an odd chiming sound which she guessed would be the magic required to keep her locked in her… room. 

She looked around the space again.  _ If I wasn’t already mad, I will be soon, _ she thought bitterly.  _ If I ever see the Malfoys again I’ll be sure to repay the favour they’ve done me.  _

When the woman came back to collect her, Hermione was still wearing her red cap and her cloak. She noted the way the woman—Helga, her name badge read—pursed her lips and marked something on the clipboard, but Hermione couldn’t care less what these people thought of her. 

Group therapy, as it turned out, was really just an exercise in futility as a couple of Mind Healers attempted to engage ten crazy individuals in normal conversation. One man had absolutely no idea who he was but insisted on signing the notepad Hermione had been given upon entry to the common room in an illegible, loopy pattern. Another woman spent the entire time twisting sweet wrappers together until they resembled a chain; she then attempted to tie them around her neck, but Helga took the noose away from her, much to the displeasure of the mute. 

After the hour-long session of torture, Hermione was taken into another white room; this one was void of furniture except a silver examination table. She was forced to lay down on it, completely naked, and a myriad of doctors— _ Healers, _ they called themselves—poked and prodded every inch of her flesh. Needles went in and out, but Hermione was unable to speak or even cry. Somehow, they had made it impossible for her to move or make noise. Instead, she lay there while they disregarded her privacy and her humanity; she was an animal. 

If she heard the words  _ Obscurial  _ or  _ Obscurus _ again, Hermione thought she might explode, but they’d done something to her powers, too. She could feel the rage as it flowed through her blood stream, filling her chest before being pushed out around her extremities, but she couldn’t send it outwards; she was blocked. 

_ Let them block me, _ she thought savagely,  _ I will build this rage until it is strong enough to outdo their stupid constraints. _

This became her mantra over the next few months. Hermione would attend all group therapy sessions, spoke when she was asked to, smiled when she thought it was appropriate, and engaged with staff and fellow patients as much as she absolutely had to. She allowed them to prod her, to poke her, to completely disregard her worth as a human being because she was  _ an anomaly _ and  _ worth more than Galleons  _ according to several experts from a wide range of fields—medical, political, environmental… 

Hermione put up with it all and even joked with the orderly, Helga, who she was sure considered Hermione a friend, but all of it was a ruse. They were stupid, these witches and wizards, despite their misplaced sense of superiority to those they deemed different and dangerous. 

One day, when her strength surpassed their spells, she would show them all and they would beg for mercy while the dark cloud of reality absorbed everything around them. And when their broken bodies littered the ground at Hermione’s feet, she would look down upon them without pity and seek out the revenge which had been stolen from her. 

Oh, yes… after all this time, Hermione was still concerned with the Malfoy clan, despite not having seen any of them since they dumped her here in this hellish place of exile. One day, she would find them, and she would kill them. 

It may have been her mother’s fault, at least in the beginning, that Hermione had turned into this inexplicable creature unable to control its fury and need for destruction, but it was the Young Malfoy who had fed the beast. The beast inside her—the wolf, if you will. 

After all, the worst sort of evils are often found within the recesses of our own twisted minds. 


End file.
